


Proof (or, the ass tat fic)

by prufrocks



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrocks/pseuds/prufrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur loves Dom more than he loves Eames, and he's willing to get the tattoo to prove it. So what if he's drunk?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof (or, the ass tat fic)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Bina, for posting the poll that inspired this fic. Chandler/Chandler are my own invention. Ronny is based on the guy who pierced my conch.
> 
> Please note that this is the only fic I've finished for this fandom. I'm sorry.

"I bet," Mal says, waving the bottle of champagne dangerously close to Arthur's head. "I bet you love meeeester Eames more than you love my husband."

"I fuckin," Arthur says, batting the bottle away from his precious headspace and watching it fall out of Mal's hand and go clunk on the rug. "I fuckin do not. I love your fuckin husband more than I fuckin love Eames. Truth."

"But do you," she says, picking up the bottle and staring mournfully inside it, "do you love fucking Mister Eames more than you love my husband?"

"No."

"I bet you do," Mal crows, "I bet you love Mister Eames so much you would tattoo his likeness on your derriere."

"I fuckin, I fuckin do not." Arthur rolls up off the floor and tries to climb back onto the couch, which is unfortunately covered in a sleeping Dominic Cobb. "Whoops," Arthur giggles as he sits down on Dom's face.

"Prove it to me."

"I'm proving it to you right now. See? I clearly love your husband more than I love Mister Fucking Eames because I'm sitting on your husband's face right now rather than at Mister Fucking Eames's bedside."

"That is because you are afraid! You are afraid of commat- comment- commitment! Of showing him how much you love him!" shouts Mal, suddenly angry, as she picks up the champagne bottle again and holds it to Arthur's throat. "You are afraid to go in there and hold him because that would mean that you were serious today."

Dom snuffles in his sleep and tries to roll over; Arthur leaps up to give him room to breath. "Stop sitting on my fucking face, Arthur," Dom mumbles, and then buries his head in the couch cushions.

"Of course I was being fucking serious today, he was shot in the fucking stomach and he needed serious medical attention. I was providing necessary treatment." Arthur distinctly remembers how badly his hands had been shaking while they were while they were trying desperately to _stop the bleeding Jesus fucking Christ somebody call a fucking ambulance what is your fucking problem-_

"Arthur." Mal's face is an inch away from his when he opens his eyes. "Stop thinking about it."

"Alright," Arthur says. "You want proof? I'll go get you proof. I'm going to tattoo Dom's face on my ass."

"You cannot," Mal says, giggling. "You are so drunk, Arthur, they do not tattoo people when they are drunk, trust me, I've tried."

"I'm not drunk," Arthur says, then stands up and promptly falls back down to the couch again, where he lands on Dom's stomach.

"Get the fuck off me, Arthur," mumbles Dom.

"I bet you will not get that tattoo because I bet you love Mister Eames more than you love my husband."

Arthur so desperately wants to wipe that triumphant look off of Mal's stupid face. "Watch me," he says, and then stalks out of the hotel room.

\------

The tattoo parlor is not impressed with Arthur. “Sit down before you hurt yourself,” says a fat man holding a tattoo gun from behind the counter.

“What will it fucking take for you to give me a goddamn tattoo? More money? I have so much fucking money. Here, have-” Arthur digs through his wallet and counts out a stack of Benjamins. “Is forty thousand dollars enough?”

“Jesus,” says the fat man.

“I’ll tell you what,” says the tall blonde girl standing in front of him. “If you’re still here in six hours, and you’re sober, and you still want that tattoo, I’ll do it for you. Okay?”

“Challenge accepted,” Arthur says, and curls up on the floor.

***

By the end of the first hour, Arthur has learned the names of the tattoo artists. The fat man is Ronny. He has a skull tattooed on the back of his head, and his knuckles read “Wide Load”. The tall blonde girl is Chandler, and she owns the shop.

By the end of the second hour, Chandler’s boyfriend, also inexplicably named Chandler, has dropped off Pad Thai and started questioning Arthur on his motives.

“So you’re tattooing your friend’s face on your ass… to prove to his wife that you like him more than you like the guy you’re fucking?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says around a mouthful of noodles. He tries to swallow and chokes. Ronny starts to pound his back, which only makes it worse; both Chandlers end up with masticated Pad Thai on their shirts. “Sorry.”

“If you’re not sober by 3 AM, you’re still giving me the forty thousand, alright?” Chandler and Chandler wipe the rejected noodles off each other and go to the back room, to “change”.

By the end of the third hour, Arthur is asleep on the table, murmuring Eames’s name.

At 2:30, Ronny wakes Arthur up and hands him a broom. Chandler and Chandler come out from the back, freshly arranged and looking a great deal happier than they did when they left. Arthur passes every sobriety test they can think of, and hands Chandler a picture of Dom on his phone.

“Alright,” she sighs, inking up her needle.

Arthur drops his pants.

***

Arthur has never experienced pain this blindingly intense before, so it takes him a few tries before he inserts the key card into the hotel room door the right way. When he finally gets the door open, both Mal and Dom are holding their matching Berettas in his face.

“Mon dieu, Arthur,” Mal cries, kissing him. “We were so worried- well, I was so worried, Dom was asleep and Eames- well.”

“Why are you limping?” asks Dom, as Arthur limps into the room.

“You wanted proof, Mal? Here’s some fucking proof.” And Arthur drops his pants for the second time that morning, ripping off the plastic bandage as well. “Ow.”

They are silent for a good five minutes.

“Oh Arthur, you did not,” Mal whimpers.

Dom cocks his head, squints, raises an eyebrow, and nods. “Not bad.”

“You won’t be able to sit for a week!”

Arthur has a sudden epiphany at that. “I know,” he says. “Look, if I didn’t get the tattoo, I would have kept sitting on Dom’s face all week, but now I have a reason to go in there and lie down.”

Dom seems confused. “But Eames is in the only bed.”

“Exactly.” Arthur pulls his pants all the way off, tosses them at Mal, and walks gingerly into the bedroom.


End file.
